“Why do you run when you see me coming?” He flashed a quizzical glance at her. “I don’t,” she began to say, but her words trailed off into an inarticulate murmur. He had played a chord or two more to her silence before he stopped to lean forward and say: “Why did you avoid me on the train? You need not trouble yourself to answer. Some kind person had warned you against being too polite to me—and you took the warning like a good little girl. It has been borne in upon me quite a number of times that I do not exactly command respect in this community. I assure you that I know my place.” “But, oh, why don’t you _make_ people respect you?” cried Dosia. “Why don’t you make them? If you really try—oh, if I were a man, I wouldn’t sit quietly and say such things. You can do anything if you really try.” “Can you?” He smiled with indulgence at her copy-book wisdom. “Well, perhaps you can, if there’s sufficient impetus to the effort. There really isn’t with me. When I was a boy—you’ll tire yourself if you stand up any longer. Come and sit over here by the fire.” She followed half mechanically to the sofa on which he arranged the cushions for her, seating himself in the other corner, where he leaned forward, looking, not at her, but at the fire. His personality was so strong that each inch that lessened the distance between her and that lithe, sinewy figure and the dark Oriental face brought a corresponding thrill of magnetism to Dosia—a subtle excitement which drew her into its spell. The confusion which had clouded her at first was gone; she felt luminously clear, in preparation for some great moment of confidence, in which her mission would be to help and sustain. She broke the silence presently to say, with a sweet and halting diffidence, through which her earnestness showed: “I want you to tell me. You began to say—I want to know about when you were a boy.” “When I was a boy I made a wrong start. Heaven knows, it wasn’t my fault! I was good enough before that—religiously inclined!” He leaned forward and struck a log with one of the fire-irons, sending a shower of sparks flying upward. “Where do you think I learned half the bad I know? At a camp-meeting! But I won’t go back to the past—it’s a mistake. Only, I came here literally ‘on suspicion.’” “Yes,” said Dosia, with her clear spirit-voice; “and you tried to work up from under it.” Lawson dropped his chin into his hands, looking moodily ahead. “I’m afraid not always. Sometimes the contrary.” “Oh, oh,” breathed Dosia, in a whisper. “If you want me to tell you the truth—! Your relatives are quite right in ordering you to avoid me. There has never been anybody, you see, to really care whether I kept straight or not.” “Your sister?” [Illustration: _He played a chord or two more to her silence_]